Handicapped Parking

The Curmudgeon Societé Generale takes the law regarding handicapped parking very seriously. This is not surprising, considering just how large a segment of the membership actually HAS one of those tags. And, as a practical matter, you really don't want these people trying to park their boats in normal parking spaces - all those Crown Vics and Lincoln Grand Marquises need that extra width parking spot.

But today's polemic is about that unbelievably lazy class of people who use some genuinely handicapped family member's tag just to park close by a door at a mall. Unfettered by the least bit of concern for people who actually have a very tough time getting around, these quite despicable yahoos prance off to get those new shoes or something with perfectly clear consciences.

This whole thing gets weirder, too. I recently took my Sainted wife to a medical building - full of heart, bone, and a lot of other crippling disease doctors - the kind of place where every other patient is handicapped in one way or another. Do they have some clever parking setup? Of course they don't! They're too cheap, so everyone trudges in from spaces that stretch away like a mall lot.

Handicapped parking: nice idea. Handicapped execution.

Marrying a Curmudgeon

When our first wedding anniversary was looming in front of me, I was rather at a loss as to what to give my Sainted wife. A thank-you card for helping turn me into a curmudgeon seemed inadequate.

What might she like? Well, she liked to entertain - a lot.  Parties, dinners, teas - and she had the dishware and glassware for each occasion to prove it (see some of my earliest posts on this plague upon kitchen storage space). Then it hit me - plate warmers! Perfect for entertaining AND practical. What genius!

What so NOT genius. Clearly I wasn't getting the tender emotional part of this "married" bit. Luckily, I didn't go with some of my other ideas (oven mitts, a membership at the "Y," a subscription to Entertaining magazine).

However, the unintentional hidden genius in my gift was that I had set the bar really, really low for future gift-giving. Absolutely nowhere to go but up.

Mars

An alert reader sent me an article about the opportunity for the definitive adventure of a lifetime: a one-way trip to Mars.  One way.  Mars.  Only 78,000 applicants would be accepted.  

A quick survey of curmudgeons produced pretty much what you would expect - "where are they going to find THAT many nutcases?" Funny story - they sold out within days.

Personally, I suspect that there are WAY more than a mere 78,000 qualifying nutcases that can be tapped for such a mission. Give me a little while and I'm sure I could easily think of a few candidates I would like to suggest, as, no doubt, could each of you.

Nonetheless, this will be WORTHY reality TV - not that lame stuff they've got on the tube now.

Grocery Shopping

The last thing I want to do on the Memorial Day weekend is grocery shop. Only an idiot would do this if they were: 1. retired and could do it during the week (like me) or 2. a curmudgeon who avoids crowds like the plague (again, me).

But it was my Sainted wife's week to cook and since grocery shopping is anathema to her, we were pretty much out of everything edible except Tiger, the Wonder Cat's Kabibbles.

Our local grocery store has a great selection and great prices, but because it is run by some magical combination of inept AND cheap people, the aisles are not very wide, and following a recent redo of the entire store that moved things all around HAVEN'T EVEN GOT NEW AISLE SIGNS YET (note: "recent" to Joe Inept and Fred Cheap is 4 months...and counting). So confusion, bothersome slow-moving old ladies, texting kids not watching where they were going and general chaos reigned.

I am proud to say I only ran down two of the old ladies with my cart and pushed aside only one pimply texter. Given the circumstances, I think I was quite restrained.

Memorial Day

For reasons I cannot fathom, some government weenie decided that, rather than have the Memorial Day weekend on Memorial Day this year, we would do it a week earlier. Since when does Memorial Day wander the calendar like "Presidents Day" or Easter?  

So here we are on the 25th, freezing our buns since it is, like, 50 degrees out with a 20 mph wind. I can't even light my BBQ - and it's a gas grill.

The weather for next weekend (the 30th)? Sunny and 90. Now THAT calls for weenies.

Breast Feeding in Public

Concerned readers often write to seek Curmudgeon Societé counsel and advice on how to behave when confronted with dicey things in life. Recently, one posed the question: What is the Societé position on breast feeding in public? Tough one. 

The Handbook is silent on the matter (it manages to skirt a LOT of the more sticky issues), so I did some nosing around amongst the members. The results were inconclusive. On the one hand, exposed female breasts in public sounds like it would be a good thing - every teenage boy's dream (and not a few curmudgeons as well). On the other hand, there was stiff opposition - essentially "In my day we kept that crap in private."

So, in true Societé fashion, it was unceremoniously dumped back in my lap. Sort of "you speak for us, handle it." I suggest that if you encounter this behavior, sagely inspect the situation, and then tsk, tsk at will. Ladies, let's use a little discretion, please. Keep that crap in private.

Cellphonitis

You've seen these bozos - people that seem to be on their cell phone CONSTANTLY. And whoever they're on with, it is more important than whatever they are currently doing. They're on it while doing transactions with a cashier (perhaps one of the rudest behaviors created by cell phones), behind you in line at the bank (guaranteed to piss anyone off), etc. 

I'm pestered at Societé meetings: "What are these women talking about?" And yes, dear readers, it IS inevitably a woman.

Guys make calls for a reason. We address it, resolve it, and get on with our lives. Gals, not so much. It's as if the very act of being on a phone makes them appear important. They answer it no matter if they are in the middle of a conversation with you that THEY initiated. Letting a call go to voice mail simply isn't an option. More likely, they never figured out how to use the voice messaging system.

As I tell my fellow members, there is no explaining it, so go with it and buy stock in cell phone companies.

Uncle Franz

My great uncle (by marriage - we Pilgrim descendants welcome all) came here from Germany. He was an expert in Diesel engines, having worked with the man (i.e., Herr Diesel) himself.

A short lesson here - gasoline engines are as light as any lump of metal can be while withstanding controlled explosions inside of it. Diesel engines go the extra mile of compressing the gas/air mixture so much it explodes BY ITSELF (no spark plug needed). Hence, a way more rugged hunk of metal.

But, I digress - back to Uncle Franz. He was a giant of a man with the German-accented English and the Teutonic air of authority you would expect. Frankly, he scared the bejeezus out of me. Once, on the NY subway with my dear mother in the '40s, he was expostulating - loud enough to be heard over the sounds of the subway - about the problems in Germany with "ze chews."  

On the NY subway. My poor mother tried to disappear. Uncle Franz was unfazed.

App? What App?

You've all heard the phrase "There's an app for that!"  In my experience with my trusty iPhone, I've pretty much come to agree.  I've got all manner of goodies on my phone. For me, the best part is I get to voucher their expense as part of "research" in my role as technical advisor for the Societé.

Recently, at a back yard party my Sainted wife threw, a guest heard a nearby bird singing and wondered aloud what kind it was. Full of faith in my nifty phone, I said that there was no doubt an app for that - you know, have the app listen to said bird and tell you what it was.

Well, guess what? There ISN'T an app for that! There are plenty of birdsong apps, but they require you to find the song that matches the bird you're listening to, NOT the other way around.

I'm verklempt.  And I still can't identify that damned bird.

American Hawkers

I've made my position on reality shows pretty clear (see April 10th should you need a refresher). I have to give them this: as they proliferate, they manage to sink ever lower.

So it came as no surprise when I overheard a party guest recently talk about yet another new show. I could swear she said "American Hawkers." Knowing full well the types of people these shows appeal to, my mind skipped over the noble sport of Hawking (with the actual birds) and even Carny-type hawkers selling things.

Nay, my mind went immediately to a show about competitive spitting. Sounded very much in keeping with the "reality" genre and bound to appeal to today's viewers.  

Despite having misheard her say "American Hoggers" (big surprise - an actual show), I still think we'll see competitive spitting before this genre's run is over.

A Hoody Lament

Hoodies. A rather practical piece of clothing. Heck, Monks wore them all the time in ages gone by. On a cool day, you're bundled up in a warm sweatshirt when suddenly the wind picks up and voila! - you flip the hood up. Very practical indeed.

Unfortunately, idiots abound. Teens, wishing they could withdraw from life, wear the hoods up all the time - including inside restaurants. Ne'er-do-wells wear them up to rob you, the local liquor store, and such.

I swear, for once in his life, Giraldo Rivera had a good idea - ban the things. The idiots are winning this one. I've just read that someone has come out with a hoody that has earphones on the pull strings and a special pocket for your MP3 player. Can things get worse?

The Curmudgeon Societé isn't big on banning things (except bad behavior, idiots, crooks and the like) so we aren't about to lobby to ban these things, but we DO reserve the right to distrust anyone who wears one with the hood up. I suspect we won't be wrong all that often.

The Beauty of Spring...Or Not

Spring has sprung here in New Jersey.  My Sainted wife's garden is waking up, our magnolia and the cherry trees out front are in full bloom and the air is thick with allergens. Spring also brings out the all the wonderful young women who have been hidden from view over the winter, allowing us old curmudgeons to relive our (imagined) youth.

But alas, skimpier clothes on some people bring out the sight of some god-awful tattoo they really shouldn't have gotten over the winter. You know full well my thinking on this topic. (Just in case a reminder is needed, see my February 16 and November 11 observations from last year). It is just all the more painful when these things pop out in the Spring, spoiling an otherwise beautiful scene by shouting "look at me! I'm hideous!"

And they are.

Commuting

A (rather large) number of years ago, I had the pleasure of commuting by train.  And I mean it when I say "pleasure" because it was - you could relax, read the paper (or comic book), zone out watching the scenery, nap - even do work.

This was all possible despite the fact that on the ole Jersey Central the cars were from the 1920s (replete with seats that were bamboo-on-horsehair affairs and windows that opened since there was no air conditioning).

But, on a crowded train, the pleasure depended on your seatmate.  As a budding curmudgeon, I preferred none, but that rarely worked out.  One particularly bleak day, I got an older woman who nodded off to sleep.  You might be thinking "lucky you" - but her head slowly sank to the left TOWARDS MY SHOULDER.

Talk about invading my space.  As she sank, I shrank.  I faked a cough, rattled my newspaper some, even squirmed a bit, but that head kept on sinking.  I steeled myself for the inevitable touchdown. 

In the nick of time "Cranford! Next stop!" rang out - my penthouse suite awaited.

Timeshares

My Sainted wife purchased a timeshare in Florida with her sister.  Since they live in different parts of the country, this was a nifty way to get together in a nice place.  As it turns out, a lot of people think the same way.  And since we all have the same week, you start to get to know other "regulars."

As you can imagine, it is a very casual sort of relationship, but by and large, people are friendly.  After all, we're all on vacation, it IS a nice place, and people are enjoying themselves.

Then there are those like the ones depicted.  I swear they are just tolerating us since they think they really belong at the more upscale resort down the beach.

Tough noogies.  Get over yourselves.  Wave "hi" first now and again.

Baconalia

I finally did it!  I managed to get to a Denny's while the gastronomical celebration "Baconalia" was in full swing.

Of course, I had to leave the state of New Jersey in order to accomplish this, since (as I noted last year) the nearest Denny's to me at home is about as inconvenient as traveling out of state by air.

But it was worth it.  A French toast sandwich with white chocolate filling and bacon crumbled on top, PLUS syrup and extra slices of bacon!

We had the local EMTs on speed dial just in case.

Clouds - Friend or Foe?

As I have noted in the past, I summered in Maine as a child.  As "Monk" often said, it was a blessing...and a curse.  Saying the water was chilly in no way does it justice.

The air was only marginally better - you came to worship the sun for its warming rays and curse clouds.  Life in New Jersey is not that different - you really, really want sun when basking by the pool.  Clouds, not so much.

Here in Florida, clouds become your friends, giving you an occasional break from a potent sun.  A chance to actually see what you're trying to look up on your iPhone.  

And a spot check on that burgeoning burn.

Early Morning Walks

The weather being beautiful here in Florida, I ventured out on an early morning walk.  Not unsurprisingly, a fair number of others took the same opportunity.  Except, down here, they're real friendly and greet you with a cheery "Morning!" as you pass.

Who needs this sort of crap first thing in the morning?  In NJ, people out early are on a mission - exercise.  No greeting, mostly grunting.

There isn't a curmudgeon alive who responds well to people wandering about cheerfully greeting them first thing in the morning.

I now take my walks later, when there are so many walkers one doesn't "Morning!" them all - just the pretty ones in bikinis.

Florida

Here I am in Florida, enjoying their beautiful warm weather, their beaches and their hospitality.  It's a good thing.

Since, for reasons known only to her, my Sainted wife goes shopping - in the same exact stores we have at home - so I must find ways to while away my time.  For instance, I look through the local rags to see what real estate deals may be had and such.  While doing so, I also ran across page upon page of boats for sale.  

This was not surprising, but amidst all these boat ads, one really caught my eye: it was a racy cigarette-style boat with the caption "Not for sale in U.S. waters."

This has GOT to be some sort of wanted drug runner boat, doesn't it?  I guess we play things a little loose here in Florida.

Cinque de Something-or-Other

While we were in Florida this week, my Sainted wife announced that it was a holiday - "Cinque de Mayo" (I think I got that right) which apparently has to do with sandwiches.  Nonetheless, we decided to go to a Mexican restaurant.

Mexican cuisine is not unlike Italian - they combine some small set of ingredients in slightly different ways to make it look like there is more than one item on the menu.  But, as with their southern European counterparts, there are strong feelings about how well this stuff turns out, and since we were in an unfamiliar place, I consulted Google for help.

One restaurant really stood out in the reviews, so off we went.  Arriving safely (thank you Google Maps), we discovered one of those hole-in-the-wall places that doesn't take reservations because word-of-mouth keeps them hopping.  However, apparently this holiday concentrates more on Mexican liquor than food, so no hopping.  Worse, this hole in the wall was in a strip mall along side of a tattoo joint and Stuff-You-Like liquors.

Google skipped that part.  But they nailed the food.

Trouble in TSA-Land

My Sainted wife and I are what you would call "seasoned" travelers.  We both traveled extensively in business.  

We still travel, so we're  used to the TSA drill.  We pack smart, wear slip-on shoes for easy check-ins, and have our papers ready.

Not so fast!  Today, after passing muster with boarding pass and picture ID, I loaded up those bins (not forgetting belts, shoes, jewelry, etc. etc.), stepped into the merry-go-round xray, and as I stepped out, the guy said "boarding pass."

It was in my valise, going through the other xray with my wallet, iPhone, belt and shoes.  They had already OKd us at their super-secure check in point.  

Always something else.  Chuckleheads.

Desk Wars

When I first heard "Please Please Me" by the Beatles, I lost it.  I shook, I quaked, I rocked.  In my defense, at the tender age of 13, hormones were contributing mightily to this situation.

As it happened, I was sitting at a mutual desk with big brother Buzz (we were listening to the radio while doing homework).  He was oddly unaffected by the Beatles.  So, a certain sort of row ensued.

It being a small house, our Dad, after having had the usual tough day at the office, came up, separated us, and drew a line down the middle of the desk.  Certain stern words implying future bodily harm were spoken and we settled down - each on his side of the desk.

All was well.  Then, being a Top 40 station, they again played "Please Please Me" a little later.  However symbolic, the "line" on the desk proved ineffective.  Things got ugly.  I blame the Beatles.

They're New! They're Improved!

Have you seen these "new and improved" Band-Aids?  They now come with a waffled pad, ostensibly for our benefit.

Now, I respect J&J greatly.  And their Band-Aids (registered trademark of Johnson & Johnson, but like Kleenex, often misused as the generic term) are without peer.  Other brands and the generic bandages all suck.  Band-Aids have a magical sticking power and I put my trust in them.

But waffle pads for our benefit?  Rather disingenuous.  It clearly takes less material to fabricate them - they are nothing more than a cost reduction MARKETED as a benefit to us.

I'll still depend on them, but there's no fooling a curmudgeon.